Sonnet to the Same

How may I, GIBBON, to thy taste confide This artless copy of a Gallic gem? Wilt thou not cast th' unpolish'd work aside, And with just scorn my failing line condemn? No! thou wilt never, with pedantic phlegm, Spurn the first produce of a female mind; Young flowers! that, trembling on a tender stem, Court thy protection from each ruder wind. Tho' I may injure, by a coarser style, The work that Lambert's graceful hand design'd, I still, if favour'd by thy partial smile, Shall boast like her of friendship's joys refin'd. Nor fear from age her list of female woes, If, as my years increase, thy friendship grows.